On the Cutting Edge of Happiness
by bluebeastie
Summary: It's all about the armor. Short. Silly. Slash. Only Boba Fett and Darth Vader can really understand each other.


Ah! A fanfic written, once again, about worlds I do not own, using characters I do not own, all done with no permission from anyone who does own all this intellectual real estate. Lucasarts doesn't care about me and has never said anything about my using their work one way or the other.

I admit to some bitterness. I hated Episodes 1-3. This constitutes my launching twisted revenge upon the fandom that gave me potty humor, insta-deaths, stupid evil, stupid good, and strictly non-sandy love.

Begin. . .

He stared out at the stars, wondering in the back of his mind if his. . . interest had moved on. Perhaps another token of esteem was in order? Nonsense, his best one hadn't even been prepared yet. He wasn't even sure if the gift would survive its packaging process.

He sighed, which was completely unnoticeable in his breathing. Even being the Emperor's second in command hadn't insulated him from the more entangling emotions. Even he had not been able to avoid love. But his new attraction was the furthest possible from she who had, long ago, held his heart.

He often thought of receding into the distance of his armor, of using the gift of no encouragement, of hiding every hint of emotion deep within his helmeted head.

But that voice. That grating, thoughtful voice, every word seen from three sides and approved by a cold and crystalline mind. That voice leaped past his ears to travel up and down his spine, jump-starting processes long unrun. He could not escape it.

Perhaps his fascination was that of the unfamiliar; his attraction wore the bookend of his own armor. His was perfect, pristine and shining, carefully polished and buffed. His interest's was pitted, scarred, and dinged in hundreds of places, but perfectly functional, completely efficient.

Both of them were irreplaceable by droids, had emulated machinery to the point that they'd risen above it.

"You called."

The voice, so near he almost jumped, no warning besides a faint awareness in the Force. Impressive. He turned, pleased. Yes, the alarm system of the door was shorted, and the business done before the pressure system in the hall noted that someone was spending too much time by his door.

"Yes." He searched for a way to make it clear that this was not a business meeting. "You have, I assume, been thanked for your contribution."

"Thanked?" That tip of his head said that the object of his pursuit was as close to amused as he ever became. The Dark Lord had long grown accustomed to waiting for it. "I've been permitted to wait for my merchandise."

Vader turned, looking through the wide window at the series of landing platforms stretching across the city. "Are you situated for rapid takeoff?"

He felt the change in Fett's breathing through awareness in the Force, a sharp breath to encourage rapid thinking. It was not something that occurred to most purchasers, but getting the merchandise to the buyer was every bounty hunter's main concern. To be so devoted to his every desire could only mean one thing. Vader had finally shown his intentions in this intricate dance. "I can leave as soon as I have what I came here for."

Quashed. Worse, shot down in flames. Vader felt his lips twist in a bitter smile, swayed back slightly to reclaim his space. He did a rapid search for words. None were prepared. He had been walking this delicate balance for so long, he had forgotten the consequences of a misstep.

"With my new wingmate." Fett had noticed the pause and seemed to be attempting to cue him.

Vader, completely powerless in space, opened his hands to indicate confusion. The bounty hunter was not asinine; there was no question of Vader abandoning his post. He knew this was not romantic idiocy, and awaited an explanation.

"I've been assigned an escort while in. . . Imperial space. In this case, it means space the Empire occupies. Until I'm out of range of Bespin, I fly under escort."

"That's ludicrous," Vader rumbled, lifting a hand to gesture (and, incidentally, showing off the range of motion of his gauntleted fingers.) "Why would this be required? You're a bounty hunter, not a hunt saboteur. More to the point, you're of use."

Again, that motion conveying a modicum of semiamusement. "You seem to have thought it through more thoroughly than the commander."

"It's revoked," Vader breathed. (Actually, he was careful not to breathe it, because even Fett would have missed it in the general ssh-pah-ness. But he uttered it with reverence, almost gently.)

The bounty hunter nodded, allowing his displeasure to be revoked as well. "Since you brought the subject up. . . I need to be closer to the carbonite chamber, in event of ambitious friends."

"You do not trust me to keep them away?" Yes, a bold step, but a chance for the bounty hunter to offer him the loan of some. . . hard to remove. . . artillery.

"You asked." Fett's voice was still edged, still not quite pristine of excess emotion. Vader mentally applauded his lack of sentimentality, but couldn't help feeling slightly stung at the rebuff, especially since Fett had just tipped his head to one side in that special tilt that brought out the lines of his armor. Intellectually, Vader knew he was only using his jaw muscles to clear his data processing screens, all so that he could run another atmosphere check for introduced poisons. It was still an endearing gesture.

"A room closer to the carbonite chamber is easily granted," Vader said, grateful that the air conditioning had kicked on (less for the cooling effect, since his suit was at perfect temperature, but more for the cape-flaring effect. Someone who could appreciate the niceties of armor was present; why waste him?)

"Ah." And there was emotion in Fett's voice, still, but different. Vader could hear the sound of a talented sabaac player starting to submit his electronic cards, with full expectation of winning the pot. "Perhaps you would care to join me in making sure this new room is habitable?"

"I'm afraid-" Well, that was a black, black lie, but his conversational etiquette was rusty. Vader relied on intimidation and rank. Accidental claims to weakness aside, he couldn't survive outside his armor without precautions.

"Because," Fett cut in at the perfect moment, before Vader could close the conversation or hastily cough to a halt over his poor word choice, "I've added a few small changes. With the door sealed, I'm quite sure we could set up a hyperbaric chamber in minutes."

Vader knew Fett had heard the slight tick of the shielding over his kneecaps clicking against his shin. His gamble had worked; finally, he had his answer. But. . . "You realize there's still one thing we'll need—"

"Lord Vader, you underestimate me," Fett purred, which meant that his voice got more meltingly gravelly. "I'm always fully prepared. Of course I have a can opener."


End file.
